


sweetroll

by orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Confessions, Food, Friends to Lovers, Love at First Sight, M/M, Scars, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-27 18:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15030257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Porthos has been pining after Cicero since the beginning, but is Cicero’s admiration for the Listener just that, admiration, or is it something more that Porthos has yet to find out?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello darkness my old friend~  
> some db/cicero stuff, because i want to write my db’s relationship with him and what it would be like out... apologies if cicero is a bit ooc, he’s difficult to write :00  
> notes about my DB!  
> porthos, very big khajit, polite and stern. he has a soft spot for cooking and finely crafted daggers. totally fell in love with cicero as soon as he saw him.  
> notes about cicero!  
> he is trans! i imagine he came from a very poor family and was married to a slightly richer man, but he decided he wouldn’t submit to his family’s wishes, which is at that point he slaughtered his groom, his groom’s family, and finally, his unborn child, before being recruited into the dark brotherhood for the remarkable technique behind his murders.

“You like sweetrolls, hm?”

 

Cicero is pale, his red hair plastered to his cheeks and forehead, and his breathing is harsh and frantic.

 

“Y-Yes, Cicero likes them… yes.”

 

There’s an ugly, deep gash cutting across his side, his rib exposed and Porthos can almost see the beating lung beneath, indistinguishable from the rest of the flesh and blood seeping all around the wound, into his armor and onto the floor. “What is your favorite part, Keeper?”

 

Porthos’ voice is gentle, raspy and smooth as his hands glow with novice restoration magic and work across the wound. “Keeper? Stay with me now. Mother needs you to come home, doesn’t she?” Despite the calm expression Porthos is trying to maintain, fear has settled in his heart like a barb, refusing to be removed despite his best efforts.

 

“The… the bread, Listener, the… the bread. Cicero knew a baker in Cyrodiil-” He yelps softly as the fragmented bone is pieced together, rushing heat through his cold body, and his weak voice manages to come through a little stronger. “Cicero cut him to pieces!” He laughs, something thick in the back of his throat as his whole body shakes.

 

Porthos watches worriedly, and tries to ease back on the flow of light from his palms and onto Cicero’s skin, watching as the wound closes up, and Cicero’s shaking stops. He sighs in relief, Cicero’s eyes are wild, and Porthos gently eases him up off the ground. “Can you walk, Keeper?”

 

“Cicero can walk, alright, and talk, and… and….” His voice grows faint, and he would have fallen forwards if not for Porthos holding him.

  
“You can walk and talk when you get home, dear.”

 

With the last of his lucidity, Cicero’s eyes widen as he looks at Porthos, who realizes what he just said.

 

Porthos drops him.

 

Now that Cicero has gone limp, he’s less easy to manage, but hopefully, he wouldn’t remember any of this once they get back to Honeyside. Would his housecarl say anything about dragging a half dead jester into an impeccably clean home (as clean as it can be, with soul gems piled up in cabinets, dragon bones in drawers, and stolen jewelry in barrels) and letting them take the master bedroom?

 

Perhaps.

 

Well, it’s not like Porthos is home to use the master bedroom every night. He’s caught Iona tucked beneath the covers, a book on the pillow and empty mead bottles littered around the room.

 

His housecarl was more of a thane than he was, truthfully….

 

As Porthos manages to haul Cicero onto Shadowmere’s saddle upright, the ride to Riften begins. Cicero’s condition is stable, his breathing steady, puffs of vapor in the chilly air reassuring Porthos that the restoration magic had worked.

 

They get to Riften by midnight, and Porthos carries Cicero like a groom carrying their spouse over the threshold, Cicero’s red hair has fallen out of the shrouded cowl he wears, and his armor would have to be repaired, but there was nothing a few leather strips couldn’t fix. Iona is sleeping in the chair by the hearth, and Porthos is able to lay Cicero down on the bed, finding something more comfortable for him to wear after he’s cleaned him off. It wasn’t weird, right? They were both men, after all… even if Porthos did harbor an infatuation with the jester, love at first sight, some might say.

 

He peels away the sweat soaked leather from Cicero’s hands, then his boots, and finally, the maze of buckles that compose the armor of the Dark Brotherhood. Porthos is not surprised to see a small chest, obviously not as well developed as others, but still prevalent, and the lack of a phallus between his legs. No wonder Cicero’s voice could take such an extraordinarily high pitch when he wished for it. It wasn’t uncommon anyways, especially in the business of assassins and thieves.

 

Porthos wakes up Iona, telling her to bring a bucket of warm water, and he cleans the blood and sweat and dirt away from Cicero’s side. She casts a distasteful look at the bloodsoaked, dirty jester on the bed, but answers as always, As you wish my Thane.

 

Truthfully, one more scar wouldn’t even be noticed.

 

Cicero is covered in scars, either from mage fire or beastial claws or arrows or knives. Spread over his back and part of his chest is burns, and across his right arm, claws and arrows. Porthos winces at the sight of a cruel line cutting across beneath Cicero’s belly, and for a moment, he’s reminded of fish being gutted by the shore in his old home of Elsweyr, and strung up to dry by the dozens.

 

But, Porthos proceeds to stitch up the wound with the small kit he keeps for finishing up weakly knitted wounds, and Cicero is so out of it, he barely utters a noise. Tugging the cotton tunic over Cicero’s head is easy, and Porthos tucks him beneath the covers. He has a sudden moment of sentimentality, and he kisses his brow quickly, watching the Keeper sleep peacefully.

 

Porthos nods, and goes outside to sit on the balcony, watching the dark waters of the lake roll peacefully, a dragon far away roars, and he forgets about Cicero almost dying in front of him, of confessing the affection he’s held for months, since he first saw him in the Falkreath sanctuary.

 

He falls asleep, and dreams of Cicero wandering through the swamps of Morthal, holding deathbells in his hands. It’s a vague memory, Cicero’s cowl is thrown back and his hair is wild and soaked with water, his fingernails stained green with the juice from the stem of the flowers he picked.

 

Who are the flowers for? Porthos remembers asking.

 

For mother, of course! But… maybe…. No, foolish Cicero, no….

 

The dream ends, and Porthos awakes with a start, kicking the floorboards and the whole deck rattles. The sky is gray and murky, and he gets up so quickly his head spins. The real Cicero was in his bedroom, probably awake, bothering Iona. Porthos cracks open the door, and sure enough, Cicero is reading a book, a platter with a sweetroll and a bowl of soup nearby on the nightstand.

 

The sweetroll is half finished, and the vegetable soup is barely touched, still steaming hot.

 

Cicero’s eyes roam over to the door, and notices Porthos.

 

“Listener! Have you finally decided to see poor Cicero and how he fares?”

 

Porthos manages to put on a smile, and he nods. “Of course, Keeper. Your Listener is here to make sure you’re recovering. I see Iona has tended to you?”

 

“Oh, that brutish lady… yes, she has. She thinks I’m your bride, for whatever reason. Isn’t that silly? Just because Cicero was swooning in your arms last night doesn’t mean he’s your bride!” He laughs, and puts his book down.

 

“Well, I’m glad you have recovered so soon. I was quite worried I had lost you… I’m sorry if the stitches are crude, but my regeneration magic was never the strongest.”

 

“Listener, they are perfect! You do Cicero a wonderful favor, taking him into your home, feeding him, clothing him, bathing him… just how much did you see, though?” Cicero winks, and Porthos feels his face heat up. Thank the gods that he had fur instead of clearly visible skin.

 

“Ah, Cicero, I did not let my eyes roam, nor my hands, rest assured.”

 

“Good. Some of these scars aren’t from great battles. Cicero would hate to disappoint his dear Listener. Would you like to listen?” He smiles and pats the bed besides him, obviously wanting Porthos to sit. Porthos obliges, his tail flicking at the mention of the word dear.

 

Cicero would be the death of him.

 

“Now that Cicero has your attention, the stories will begin.” He grins, and Porthos points to the burns on his back and extended across his left shoulder and chest beneath the tunic. “Magefire, but you’re ever so perceptive, my Listener. You guessed it already, I can tell!”

 

“Mm, I have. And those are…?” Porthos points to his arm, his sleeve rolled up.

 

“Argonian claws! Cicero was a poor street urchin, when a nasty lizard came up behind me, tried to grab me, use me… but he came out of it much worse than Cicero did. His shame will be taken with him to the grave, you can’t tell anyone your secrets if you have no tongue.”

 

“Delightfully devilish as always, Cicero. Have you always been this clever when it comes to maiming?”

 

“Cicero is made to serve, Listener, to serve Sithis in the Void when my time comes, the Night Mother, and to serve… you. Cicero is always at your side, for better… or for worse.” His voice is playful as always, but it changes when Porthos points to the scar on his belly, hidden by the soft tunic Cicero is almost drowning in.

 

“And what is… that?”

 

Cicero’s dark eyes widen, and narrow quickly.

 

“A necessary act. In desperation, yes, but… necessary.” He hums and runs a finger over where it would be. “Cicero just had to break free from his bondage, Listener. He is not meant to be bound up like an animal, to a place he doesn’t belong, with people who care nothing for him… Cicero belongs with the Brotherhood, with sweet Mother, with dear Listener, surrounded by blood and by death and by everything Cicero loves. Oh, yes, the Sanctuary is wherever my Mother and my Listener goes, and that will never change. No other home for Cicero.”

 

Porthos listens closely, Cicero’s voice has lost its usual playful tone, and now, it’s solemn and low, Cicero thumbing at a page over and over again of the book he’s reading.

 

An arranged marriage? No surprise there. An unwanted child? It happened all the time, and though there were less painful methods… it made sense.

 

Cicero was never one for the painless path.

 

Porthos is distracted from his thoughts by Cicero offering him a piece of fluffy sweetroll. “You look sad, Listener! Have some, it always cheers Cicero up to have something sweet.”

 

“You are kind, Keeper. Thank you.” He takes it gratefully, the sugar washing away the bitter taste that Cicero’s tale left in his mouth. Cicero offers a winning smile, and reaches out to touch the tip of Porthos’ ear.

 

“Anything for you, my Listener.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Cicero go to Solstheim!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cici getting trapped in the underwater room in Nchardak is based on something that actually happened to me in game, and I freaked out over how to get Cicero back because 1. I ABANDONED MY BOY. I ABANDONED MY BOY! and 2. cicero had a shitton of weapons I wanted to sell (BUT MOSTLY BECAUSE I'D MISS MY JESTER)
> 
> and yes in my game he is wearing Volsung and it's more entertaining than it should be to turn around and hear his voice coming from a dragon priest mask

Cicero is up and walking by the next day, Porthos has fixed his armor and even strengthened it further. While they’re in the Ragged Flagon, Porthos talks to Delvin about new jobs as Cicero sits at the bar, perched on a stool, tiny compared to half of the people surrounding him. He seems blissfully unaware of his surroundings always, but he seems especially dreamy today. He stares at the stones on the wall, a half empty flagon of mead in front of him, and sweetroll crumbs on the counter.

 

Somewhere along the way, the business conversation strays away from that, business, after a few questions about Brotherhood events. 

 

“So that’s who you’ve been shacking up with, eh? Is he any good?”

 

“We have not. He was just staying in my home for the time being, injured in a crypt, you know how it is.”

 

“How borin’. Slip of a thing like that, and a big lug like you, you should be gettin’ along like worms to apples.”

 

Porthos shakes his head, and places a (stolen) golden necklace onto the table in front of Delvin. “You really don’t know the first thing about romance, do you?”

 

“Never said that. Here’s your payment, and make sure he doesn’t cut anyone up on the way out.” Delvin casts a look over to Cicero, who is muttering to himself frantically, and Porthos sighs, taking the coin purse offered and getting up to pat Cicero on the back.

 

“Ah! Listener, are we going now?” 

 

“Yes, yes. Just some business I had to settle. Why don’t we go stretch our legs now, Keeper?”

 

“Wonderful!” Cicero eagerly hops off the stool and trails behind Porthos, half hiding behind the Khajit’s larger frame as a few of the Thieve’s Guild members cast glances their way.

 

Out into the streets of Riften, and onto the road again.

 

They have three days of easy jobs. Retrieving stolen items from bandits, relishing in the kill, the treasure behind every one of them. 

 

Then, a letter arrives, about a source of power in Volskygge.

 

Cicero is quite taken with Volsung’s mask.

 

Porthos lets him keep it, and Cicero is as happy as he can be, content as he revels in anonimity for the first time in years. And the old Guild armor just didn’t have the same flair Volsung did. 

 

If he and Cicero could take on a Dragon Priest together, they could do anything.

 

The very next day, Porthos decides to face what he’s been running from for months now. 

 

“Solstheim? Why do we have to go to… Solstheim?” Cicero’s voice sounds exasperated beneath the mask, and Porthos shrugs as he leads Shadowmere down to the Windhelm stables. 

 

“Someone out there wishes for my demise. Preferably my slow and painful death. I have to face them on their ground, and… there’s no one I’d rather have fighting alongside me than you.” Porthos’ cowl is pulled down, and he offers a small smile. Cicero’s composure changes, shoulders dropping, and he huffs.

 

“You have a way with words, Listener… that’ll get you into trouble one day. Cicero will go.” 

 

Porthos’ smile breaks into a grin, and within the hour, after intimidating the captain of the Northern Maiden into taking them to Solstheim. It’s a short voyage, relatively speaking. Cicero sleeps most of the time, Porthos watching him as they toss and roll over the waves, the Imperial’s small frame shivering. Seasickness was a hell of a drug. On calm evenings, he could manage to coax Cicero out of the cramped quarters and onto the deck, and they watch the stars overhead. Porthos peels an apple, and Cicero takes small sips from a bottle of mead. It’s quiet, the seasickness takes most of it out of Cicero, and by the time they get to Solstheim, Porthos is sure Cicero would’ve jumped overboard and tried his chances at swimming to the damn island himself if it took any longer.

 

When they disembark, Cicero immediately runs to the nearest patch of solid ashy dirt, and falls flat onto his face, crying.

 

It’s a scene, no doubt about it, in the middle of Raven Rock.

 

“Cicero, you must get up. You want to get run over by a cart?”

 

“If it rids me of this… horrible, horrible dizziness, yes.” Cicero rolls over onto his back and pushes the mask away, his cheeks red as he props himself up on his elbows. “Cicero needs a drink.”

 

“You’ve turned into quite the drunkard after the voyage, I see. Here, let me help you up. There’s an inn just down the way.” 

 

Sure enough, The Retching Netch has a room available, and before Porthos can even place the gold into the barkeep’s hand, Cicero has already lept onto the bed, letting out a whine.

 

“Is he alright?”

 

“Seasickness. He will be fine, after a strong drink and something more filling than apples. Refused to eat anything else on the way here.” Porthos closes the door as the barkeep nods and leaves them to their business with a worried look on his face. 

 

Cicero is facedown, mask still on, and Porthos gently eases it off his head, setting it on the nightstand besides him. He rolls him over, and props him up on some rolled up blankets for the time being, while he goes to get them both something to eat. 

 

When he returns, Cicero is awake, and polishing his sword eagerly, a menacing glint in his eyes unlike any other Porthos has seen on another person.

 

It’s almost intimidating, if Porthos hasn’t seen it a hundred times before.

 

“Got you some stew. Hope you like ash yam and horker, it’s the only thing they have.” He sits on the edge of the bed as he passes Cicero his bowl. 

 

“How kind, Listener, thinking about poor Cicero… I’m so hungry, after all that rolling in that miserable ship.” Cicero sniffs the stew before he begins to eat, digging in, and before Porthos is even halfway through his bowl, Cicero has finished his.

 

“By the nine, you’ll get sick like that.”

 

“Cicero is quite used to it, Listener. Don’t worry about me.” He smiles and pulls off his gauntlets and boots. “Cicero will also be going to bed. Only fitful sleep on that boat. Err, Listener….” He fiddles with a strap of his armor.

 

“You need help?”

 

“Uhm… yes.” Cicero’s voice is almost awkward, but Porthos sets down his bowl of stew and assists Cicero, undoing each last strap of the Guild armor (a new favorite of Cicero after he spied it on a mannequin in Honeyside), and pulling it over his head, leaving him in his undershirt and linen trousers. Cicero lets out a relieved sigh, and flops back onto the bed. 

 

“So much better, thank you, Listener.” He smiles and curls up beneath the furs of the bed, and Porthos shrugs as he takes the chair next to the bed. After finishing his meal in peace, he closes his eyes, wondering what Solstheim holds for them.

 

He wakes up to a fully dressed Cicero, who shakes him excitedly.

 

“Listener! Listener! There are battles to be fought! Heads to be rolled! Cicero is getting antsy!”

 

“It’s been one night, Cicero, calm yourself. Let’s look around town for information about that damned Miraak first, before we kill anything, or anyone.” Porthos gets up and stretches as Cicero leads the way out of the inn, towards one of the huge stone pillars that they saw on their way to Raven Rock. 

 

A wizard of House Telvaani, Neloth, is there, who suggests they go to the Temple of Miraak.

There, they meet Frea, who rips through all their enemies before they can even begin to realize where they were being shot at from. Porthos reads a strange book, sees Miraak, comes back with armor for Cicero, who claps delightedly and puts it on immediately once they get to a secluded spot of the wilderness on the way to Skaal Village.

 

They’re told to return to Neloth again, who takes them to Nchardak, where Porthos almost drowns.

 

It was a foolish mistake, really. The north room began to fill with water after he took the damned cube, and before Porthos knew it, it covered his head, and Cicero was nowhere to be seen once he swam to safety. He defeated the Steam Centurion, an uneasy feeling in his chest as it crumples to the floor as everything does, wondering where Cicero could be.

 

Then he remembers the room flooded with water, how he told Cicero to stay while he got the cube, and how he never told him to follow him again. With a shout of rage, he runs as fast as the wind can carry him to the room, throwing aside the heavy metal doors, his whole body numb as he jumps into the water. He swims just as quickly, and he reaches the door where he left Cicero to wait. He looks around, but can’t see a single trace of the Keeper. 

 

He feels something brush against his leg, and realizes it’s Cicero vainly trying to alert him to his presence with the last of his strength before his breath leaves him. Porthos would have cried out in relief if it weren’t for his being underwater, and he manages to hook his fingers into the straps of Cicero’s armor, pull him with all his strength towards the entrance, just as his vision begins to blur, and his mouth opens in a vain attempt to draw in oxygen to his depleted lungs. 

 

But Cicero is alive and with him, waterlogged and coughing up salty bile as he pulls his mask off, and Porthos vainly attempts to comfort him, an arm around his back as Cicero shivers against him, hands curled into tight fists as Porthos promises him that no matter what, he wouldn’t leave his most trusted follower.   
  
“As long as I live, you’ll be by my side, Cicero. Forever and always, like you said that day….” Porthos’ voice is a watery rasp, and Cicero nods, his hair tangled and face hot against Porthos’ shoulder.

 

“Listener, Cicero… I will never leave you. Not after… I’ve come so close to death, and you’ve brought me back so many times, so, so many times.” Cicero looks up into Porthos’ bright eyes, a sudden clarity on his expressions, lucidity, almost. 

 

True lucidity, for a moment the Fool of Hearts disappears, and all Porthos sees is Cicero, wonderful, pitiful Cicero. He realizes he’s crying only a moment later, when Cicero tries to wipe away the hot tears slipping down his fur. Once he feels the almost apologetic, gentle touch, something in Porthos breaks.

 

His inhibitions, he realizes, a moment too late. 

 

He hugs Cicero tighter against his chest, and when Cicero gasps out “Porthos”, in his sweet, wonderful voice, he kisses him.

 

By then, Neloth has come around to investigate what’s taking his manpower so long, and they’re tangled on the damp stone floor, clawed fingers tangling in Cicero’s wet hair and Cicero holding onto Porthos as hard as he can, thighs locking around his waist and ankles crossed over his back.

  
Neloth mutters in distaste and leaves, but Porthos and Cicero couldn’t have been happier with the solace it offers them.

 

There, in the ruins of the dark, ancient Dwemer, Porthos realizes that Cicero is the dagger beneath his pillow, his bitter medicine, and the very breath in his lungs.

 

Only after almost losing Cicero, does he truly realize just how much Cicero means to him, as they kiss breathlessly, frantically, Cicero straddling his lap and crying and through those very tears confessing his love over and over again. 

 

Alduin could eat the world, for all Porthos could care. For now, he had Cicero in his arms, and that was all that mattered to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weddings are definitely a strange affair if you're the dragonborn, as far as the guestlist goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrapping this bad boy up with Porthos and Cicero's wedding, short and sweet, I hope everyone's enjoyed the journey so far! definitely will be posting a smutfic soon as a follow up of sorts, or some smut drabbles throughout their relationship.

It has been five days since Porthos has slaughtered Alduin, and after celebrating and feasting in Whiterun, he looks to the road to Dawnstar, an amulet of Mara in hand, and the reins of Shadowmere in the other.

 

After defeating the crown jewel of Akatosh’s creations, surely he can manage one other feat of valor.

 

Meanwhile, Cicero has been waiting his return for a month, so faithful and patient for the Listener’s return. The sanctuary isn’t the worst place to stay, but without the warmth of his Listener nearby, it feels as cold and empty as Cheydinhal after he’d been left alone, despite the chatter from the initiates and Nazir’s banter with the unchild. 

 

He stays by the Night Mother (by the entrance), taking his meals and restoring her body while he waits, keeping vigil for his beloved’s return. He really did miss Porthos, he really did, the warm scent of his fur and the gentle purrs whenever they kissed, his claws stroking carefully along Cicero’s skin at night. 

 

So when he hears Shadowmere’s ghostly whinnies and ebony horseshoes against hard packed snow, on a clear Dawnstar night when he’s picking nightshades just outside the sanctuary, he drops the armful of purple petals, and laughs delightedly, running towards the silhouette in the distance.

 

Porthos doesn’t so much dismount as half fall off the horse in his excitement, and when he meets Cicero halfway, he sweeps him off his feet, carrying him in his arms and leaning in closely, voice a low, hoarse whisper.

 

“I missed you, my sweet Cicero. Sovngarde is a lonely place without your laughter.”

 

“Cicero has missed you too, Listener. The sanctuary isn’t truly home without you, I thought I might go insane again.” The jester smiles as his eyes begin to water, and he hugs Porthos tightly around the shoulders. 

 

Porthos carries him in, and sneaking past a sleeping initiate, they get to the main bedroom, and he lays Cicero down on the bed. “I have many stories for you, dearest. So many, but… right now, I must… I must ask something of you.”

 

“Cicero lives to serve, Listener. How many times must I tell you?” He looks up at Porthos with the sweetest eyes, in the light of the fireplace they’re like dark honey, fresh from the hive and sweet as nectar. Porthos’ heart clenches, and from the inside of his armor, produces the amulet.

 

“I have been considering… wondering just who I’d want to be bound to for a lifetime. And he is here in front of me. The thing I ask of you is… your hand in marriage, Cicero. I would want nothing more than to be your husband, and when our time comes, I will gladly serve Sithis in the void along your side. If Nocturnal claims me first, I’ll fight tooth and nail to reach you. If Sovngarde awaits me, I’ll plead for you to be granted entry.”

 

“Oh, Listener…” Cicero’s voice is breathy. “Porthos, I… yes.” He laughs and nods, trailing his fingers along the amulet’s carved design, the gems embedded into the dark wood. “We will serve Sithis in life, and in death, bound by matrimony… it’ll be wonderful.” His eyes are filled with a fire of passion, and he leans up to kiss Porthos.

 

“We can get married wherever you wish, dearest, in the Temple of Mara, in the sanctuary, at the Throat of the World, anywhere you’d like. As long as it happens, I… truly, I could not be a happier man.” Porthos murmurs and kisses him back deeply, gloved hands in Cicero’s hair, silky soft and fragrant. 

 

“Me neither, dear Listener, dear Porthos….” Cicero sighs happily. “You truly are… my cure for madness.”

 

That night is spent in each other’s comfort, armor on the floor and hair let loose, arms and legs tangled together as they kiss and Porthos tells Cicero of Sovngarde, of all he’s seen, the feat he waited so long to achieve. 

 

And it wasn’t slaying Alduin.

 

When both of them finally succumb to sleep, it’s dreamless and deep, and Cicero wakes up first, held closely against Porthos’ chest, the Khajit’s tail curling over his thigh and brushing gently. He hums happily, and kisses Porthos’ chin, trying hard not to wake up the Listener. 

 

He’s excited at the prospect of marriage, a proper marriage to a proper man, not like last time, never like last time. Not in a farmhouse in the backwaters of Cyrodiil with a horrible family surrounding him, but in an actual temple, and his Mother who would be so proud, his brothers and sisters and those that he carried with him in his memories too. But most importantly, he’ll be with Porthos. That was truly all that mattered to him.

 

~~~

 

The ceremony takes place the next week in the temple of Riften, garlands of nightshade and deathbells twined over the door of both the temple and Honeyside. 

 

In the end, it’s a clandestine affair, a few members of the Thieves guild have come, as it was right in their backyard, as well as two housecarls and Nazir, sitting in a gloomy corner as he eyed the rest of the attendees. When he meets eyes with Delvin, he shifts uncomfortably and looks to the couple on the altar.

 

Neither of them quite bothered to dress up, Cicero in glass armor and Volsung pulled back, a single blossom of red tucked behind his ear and a smile wide on his face. Porthos’ Deathbrand helm is under his arm, and as he recites his vows, Cicero can’t quite stop grinning madly.

 

Rings are exchanged, kisses too, and they hold hands as they walk out of the temple together. The attendants congratulate them, Brynjolf presents Cicero with a heavy coin purse and a firm clap on the shoulder for Porthos. “Keep that clown happy, alright? I don’t want him to go slicing anyone up on your behalf.” Nazir sounds quite the same as he pushes a small chest into Porthos’ arms. “New blades for the two of you. Matching. Babette said it would be a sentimental gesture.” He shudders and waves goodbye to the newlyweds.

 

Finally alone in the temple, Porthos sets the gifts down, and takes Cicero’s hand. “Alone at last, eh?”

 

“Mm, for my first  _ proper _ wedding, it was… oh, how would one say… anticlimactic. But Cicero couldn’t be happier, can’t be happier.” He kisses Porthos on the cheek and holds their wedding presents as the Khajit picks him up, and Cicero laughs as once again, he’s swept off his feet. They get to Honeyside, and Porthos all but kicks down the door to get Cicero into their new, shared bed. Cicero cackles as Porthos begins to unbuckle his armor, and toss it aside with a dull clunk, and does his best to return the favor, until they’re both quite nude, and Porthos is pressing kisses all over Cicero’s collarbone. 

 

“Remember when I brought you here, my love? When I first called you dear in that crypt, and I was so afraid, afraid that you’d scorn me.” 

 

“Cicero could never scorn his Listener, his sweet Listener. You could turn me into mincemeat and I’d find a way to declare my love for you.” His voice is playful and light, but there’s a tone of honesty behind it that makes Porthos sigh and rest his head over his heart, hearing it beat away. Cicero smiles, and strokes between Porthos’ ears with nimble, slim fingers. 

 

“Ah, Cicero… could I have ever asked for a more perfect man to have in my life?”

 

“I don’t think so. I’m as good as it gets, Porthos, at least, when it comes to Keepers.”

 

“Truly, you will be immortalized in our history if it’s the last thing I do. Cicero, wielder of Mehrune’s Razor, Keeper of the Dark Brotherhood, husband to the Dragonborn. You’ve got almost as many achievements as I do.” Porthos reaches up to pinch his cheek gently.

 

“You flatter Cicero, dearest, but… in the end, I am a fool in love.” Cicero smiles reassuringly and leans down to kiss Porthos. 

 

“To the life ahead of us, my Keeper.”

 

“And to the past behind us, my Listener.”

 

They kiss tenderly, both finding solace in the knowledge that no matter what, they would not be separated, not in life, and certainly, not in death.


End file.
